


you got a way with words (you got away with murder)

by midnightluck



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Big Brother W. D. Gaster, Gen, au skelefamily backstory, bbybones being small skeleton con artists, mishmash mythology, overuse of italics because drama llama gaster, pre-game, sketchy science, the Underground's currency system makes no sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9555146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightluck/pseuds/midnightluck
Summary: He's the eldest, so it falls to him to take care of them.(precanon speculation of skelebros and Gaster's 'accident', featuring sketchy science, paranoid children, and a truly absurd addiction to coffee.)





	1. but blood is blood and what’s done is done

**Author's Note:**

> This is...probably too ambitious of me, tbh. And also I'm so late to this fandom, but here, have this mess of dumb idea backstory for dumb skelebros. I wanted to do something different re: gaster's accident, so even though this starts slow, give it a chance? 
> 
> Also, yes, they don't actually have names til next chapter, sorry if it gets confusing. Title and chapter titles from "The Lamb" by Dessa.
> 
> rated because language

This one never even notices the light touch of the magic string at the top of her pocket. Sometimes they do, but he’s really good at this by now and this one doesn’t. This is an easy target; she’s holding a stack of books with one hand and reading the loose papers in the other. Means both elbows are up and the jacket’s swung away away from her waist, and his strings move easy as flame, smooth as thinking, faster than blinking and he walks past, a half-foot away, with the stranger’s wallet, and also the small backpack that had been hanging off her elbow with the books.

He’s looking ahead, walking relaxed and casual, when he hears the thump behind him. He glances back because everyone else will be looking at the sound, too, and it’s his newest victim, apparently having tripped over her own feet. She’s scrabbling around, trying to pile her papers and books back up, and he knows it’s stupid but he turns and _goes,_ much faster than he should.

Movement attracts attention. Especially movement against the still of a crowd, but he’s wearing black and he’s small and below most monsters’ eyelines anyway--he should be fine.

It’s nearing end of rush hour, though, and if he hurries to the market right now, he can count what he’s got and still hit the stalls for bargains before they close. It’s the North Market today, which is his favorite. He goes there as rarely as possible so no one gets sick of him, but the stalls there are the most generous. It’s been a good day, and if this last lady had even a small amount of coins, he’d still probably have enough for all three of them to eat tonight _and_ tomorrow.

That’d be a nice change.

The knapsack has a thin book and a small journal, and the bag itself is a quality fabric he can probably sell for a decent amount. Right now he uses it to empty the collected coins into. Regular pull for the most part, five coins; enough for apples for tonight, the usual two coins for the savings jar, and even one left over for the emergency fund. He generally tries to take only a coin or two here or there, stuff that a regular monster would just write off losing; it’s safer. Then he opens the last mark's wallet and just about falls over; there's fifteen gold in there, not counting the handful of small change.

Shit. This’ll be missed.

But. But, if he’s careful...this could make things better for them. It’s not enough for anything major, but carefully used, it’s a windfall. It’s money for medicine, or a decent blanket, maybe even a jacket for his ever-cold brother. So long as no one comes after them for it.

But that’s a worry for tomorrow, so he pockets the small change and the two coins for the apples, and hides the rest at the bottom of the bag, under the book. He slings it over his shoulder as he wanders through the closing stalls, because tonight he can afford to splurge.

The old lady’s closing up her last fruit box when he sidles up, and she frowns at him, but he sets down the two coins for a bushel of crabapples. She huffs at him and makes disapproving noises, but she generally closes the crabapples up last, just in case he manages to scrounge up enough to come by. She pulls the bag of apples out from the box in front of her, and today she also shoves a bruised and misshapen vegetable at him--he doesn’t recognize it, but the skin was probably a really pretty purple when it was fresh. It’s bruised beyond the point of sellable, which is probably why she’s giving it to him. He bares his teeth and hesitates, but food’s food. Much as he can’t stand charity, his brothers can’t eat pride. He takes it.

“Cook that, if you can,” she says to her boxes, not looking his way. He flashes his teeth and shoves the thing on top of the crabapples, then melts back into the crowd.

The baker’s at the other end of the market, and he sells the leftover stale bread for pennies at the end of the day. This time the leftovers basket’s got two long loaves in it, the type his brother pretends isn’t his favorite. That’s perfect, today will be good. He counts out the coins, points at the bread, and the baker gives him a skeptical and wary look. The baker doesn’t like the looks of him, but that’s fine, he still sells him the bread. He bows a tiny bit in thanks, spine straight, polite as possible. The two loaves go in a thin paper wrapper, and he grips it close and gentle. It’s hard under his fingerbones, but not day-old-stale hard. It’s good bread.

He slinks away, out to the corner of the market. He really shouldn’t, but there’s money burning a hole in his pocket and the lady at the dairy stand is a soft touch. He hates pity more than charity, but hell if his brothers don’t deserve something nice. The littlest has been sick recently.

Fine.

His steps shorten, his shoulders come up and in, and he lets his fingers touch and fidget around the bread. He’s almost at the dairy stall, and he kicks the ground, stubbing his toebone hard, causing his eyes to go wide and maybe a bit wet. He hates pity, but it’s a weapon he can use.

He shuffles up to the stall, looks over the almost empty counter, and watches the lady from the corner of his eye. He’s never sure whether it’s logical or weird that a cow monster runs the dairy stand, but she’s shooting him pitying looks, and when the moment’s just right, he fidgets and ‘accidentally’ meets her eyes.

Her entire face softens when he immediately looks away, and his fingers dive for his pocket. He counts out what he grabs, four coins, and he holds them up to the lady questioningly. She smiles down at him, takes two of them and pats him on the head.

He has to fight not to flinch, but for those two coins she’s loading up a wrapper with almost five coins’ worth of good cheese from the leftover wheels. When she reaches for the churn full of butter, his heart goes double-time, and when she adds a pat of it to the package, his smile is almost real. Butter and cheese and decent bread, and apples. The littlest hasn’t ever had a sandwich, and none of them have ever tried whatever the purple thing even is. This is practically a feast, and he still even has two coins left!

He tucks the package into the bag, fakes a wide smile and bouncy wave and trots back out, bolder than before. There’s a candy stall in the center, and he has two coins, and he hasn’t had candy in a long time. Maybe he can get three pieces with two coins?

But by the time he gets there, it’s closed and the owner is gone. He scowls, but it’s probably for the best; he should be saving the money anyway.

The stall next door, though, is still closing up. The owner is an older lady, some kind of reptile, and her eyes look pretty bad. He’s eyeing the jellies and bottles still set out, wondering if it’s worth trying to snitch something sweet anyway, when she gives out a loud sigh.

“Loading up these boxes sure is hard on my back,” she says out loud to nobody. He watches her warily; no stealing now, that’s for sure, because no one holds grudges like the crazies. Then she continues, “If only there was a strong young monster around to help me move all the boxes. I’d certainly spare them some juice, if someone like that were to help me!”

Oh, it’s like that, is it? He tries real hard not to roll his eyes, and inches towards her anyway, because _juice_. Anything’s an improvement over the dirty water they’ve got, but juice! Juice is expensive and a luxury--it’s worth more than fruit, which is one of the rarest things in the Underground. Well, not crabapples, but they make awful juice, so. So he catches her eye and offers a fake little smile, and she grins at him. “A volunteer! Thank goodness!” she says, and gestures for him to put the stack of boxes onto the back of her cart.

He carefully rests his bag and the bread against the inside of her stall, and stacks the boxes quickly and neatly. By the time he’s done, the stall owner’s got everything else put away in the last box, and he takes that from her, too, to tuck into the space he left free for it. She grins at him some more and thanks him, and he smiles back and immediately scoops up the bag and bread, not about to leave that behind.

She then hands him an _entire bottle_. It’s the smallest bottle they stock, meant for one person to sip on with a meal, but it’s _full_. It’s too dark to be from oranges, too orange to be from apples, and doesn’t seem to have any pulp in it at all. He doesn’t know what it came from but he also doesn’t care, and he tucks it into the small bag, next to the cheese. The bag’s almost bursting now, but that’s fine. That’s good, it’s so good, and when he smiles and bows again, this time he really even means it. Juice!

The lady chuckles as he takes off, clutching the bag in both hands with the bread on top. He doesn’t stop to listen or wave or anything, just tears out of there and back towards home.

This is unbelievable; this kind of luck never happens, not to them. Fifteen gold, and butter, and even free juice? He’s suddenly really worried about his brothers, because what if he’s only this lucky ‘cause something bad happened to them? It’s all about balance, after all, and this? This is not balanced.

He runs, ducking through the crowd and staying towards the walls as often as he can. He only slows where he needs to in order to avoid attention, and he makes it back in good time. He slows outside, taking deep heaving breaths and walking until he’s back at baseline. No need to worry his brothers, and he steps light and quick around the corner and into the alley.

He’s in a hurry, but not enough that he doesn’t take the time to make sure. He sinks into the shadows of the alley, strings making them darker, and watches. There’s no one watching him back, or staring at the alley, and there’s also no one suspicious around. In fact, no one’s staying still at all, and he watches the crowd long enough to feel confident no one’s doubling back or loitering. No one on the roof across the way or on the fire escapes above, and no movement in any windows.  

Okay. Okay, okay, one more day of safety. This is okay, this is good, and he remembers to breathe again. He stretches one string across the opening at shin-height, just like always, and slinks down the alley deeper, sticking to the shadows.

There’s a few windows along the alley, most broken or barred, but the third-from-last is just covered by a crooked board. He taps on that one, fingers drumming out his name, and waits. Then once more, and then his fingers fly around the sill, finding his taut string still there. He plucks at it unconsciously, fingers dancing across it as he waits, and there it is, the return knock. Good.

The string comes back to him easily enough and disappears. He lifts the board, hops the sill and slides inside. The board goes right back in place, and a hand smaller than his own redoes the latches and locks on this side of it. His own fingers dance again, weaving a dangerous web of overlapping string inside the frame. The only way someone’s coming through there now is in pieces.

Those small hands turn on him, and he rests the bag and bread against the wall to better let them pat him down. He taps his greeting, reaching out to run his own hands along skinny arms and over a round head. Yes, they’re both okay, each still in one piece, and he cascades his fingers across the top of his brother’s skull.

“good day?” his brother asks. He nods, tapping out his excitement. He grabs the wrapped bread, shoving it at his brother, and then swings the bag up into his lap.

“this is...wow. bro, how’d we get this?” It’s not that his brother is against stealing, in practice. He doesn’t like the concept but understands the necessity, because his brother is the smartest ever. But he tells the story of that last easy mark, and he gently pulls out the bottle of juice. His brother’s eyes go so wide, and he tries not to shake while handing it over, fingers tapping along the glass and other hand flying.

His brother nods. “definitely,” he says, and  “i’ll go get him,” but he plucks at his brother’s arm before he can step away. And then he pulls out the package of cheeses and butter, and his brother almost falls over. And then comes the apples and the purple thing, and his brother sits down. This is the most food they’ve had since--well, since, and they’re both having trouble believing it.

But it _gets better_. And he finally pulls out the little book, a slim volume with fabric covers and a clean gilt title. He hands it over, and his brother closes his eyes. Neither of them are breathing evenly as those little fingerbones trace over the title: _A Theoretical Study of the Reversing of the Quantum Entanglement Principle and Some Implications Thereof._

“you found a book,” he says, quiet and distant. “you found me a _science book_ ,” and he almost vibrates in place because hell yes he did. His brother may be the smartest, but sometimes he himself is the _best_.

But that’s still not even all, ‘cause the very bottom of the bag had a notebook, and only the first few pages are full. There’s a pen tucked into the binding, and he pushes it over. His brother lifts it gentle, like a treasure, and rests it on top of the book. His brother stares at them while he stares at his brother, so the tackle-hug isn’t as much of a surprise as it might otherwise be.

He still vocalizes his laughter, and his brother’s shaking, hiding his face in his shirt. There’s something burning in his chest, and it takes a while to recognize pride. He hasn’t had reason to be proud of himself in a long time, but now he can give his brother a gift, something he doesn’t need but only wants.

“thank you,” he’s murmuring, and “i can’t believe,” and “wow,” and even “love you,” quiet enough they can both ignore it. He pets his brother’s skull, laughing and humming out reassurance, and that’s enough for both of them for a long time.

A quiet question mark breaks the mood, and his brother drags himself up to step out of the room, coming back almost immediately with the littlest. The littlest is awake and curious, waving tiny bone fists in the air and making question marks everywhere, and he takes the littlest into his arms to hold him close and stroke on his skull while his brother carefully lays out the food.

“sandwiches tonight, i think, and whatever this thing is,” his brother says, carefully unpacking the cheese. “then we’ll have the juice and apples for tomorrow, okay?”

He nods, and once it’s all laid out he sets the littlest down on the table. His strings make short work of preparation, slicing through the bread clean and even. The cheese falls in slices, and he stacks strings as tight as they will go and shaves the butter into many thin slivers. Both he and his brother start stacking, and his brother tears the center out of one slice of bread, wrapping the soft dough around a bit of butter and some cheese. It goes to the littlest, who mushes it gently. He doesn’t get soft foods like this as much as he should, and he’s certainly not expecting the sharp bite of the cheese inside it--the surprised face he pulls is priceless.

They gorge themselves, all of them, and still only finish one loaf. Instead of cutting into the next or into the purple thing, they move to the cheeses, picking at them and finishing most of it. The littlest likes the soft white swiss and his brother’s always been partial to the bite of sharp cheddar, so he takes the mild yellow cheese with the subtler flavor whose name he doesn’t know. There’s only one bit left, but it’s a solid little square of parmesan and none of them want to eat that straight.

The butter didn’t last through the loaf, and they split a crabapple for afters. It goes well with the flavor of cheese that still lingers, and they still have another loaf and the purple thing and the juice for tomorrow, when everything’s closed and everyone stays in.

And after everything is stored back away, they pile up together in the little nest in the corner, the littlest against his chest and his back against his brother’s, and his brother glows his eye and reads to them from the book until they all fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

He jerks awake in the dark, gasping, but he can tell it’s gonna be a good day ‘cause he didn’t wake either of the others. His breathing settles as he blinks into the darkness, and he runs gentle fingertips across the littlest’s spine. His strings are still blocking the window and the alley, completely undisturbed, and his brother’s breathing is heavy against his back.

He tips his head back to lean against his brother’s shoulder and smiles, small but real. He’s not even really hungry, and the littlest’s magic is beating strong against his hand. There’s really nothing more he wants right now, and he wonders vaguely how far his brother got in the book last night; he can’t recall past the first few lines.

He raises his free hand and his strings catch a crabapple stem and shoot the fruit back to his waiting hand. Careful not to disturb the littlest on his lap, he keeps both elbows up as he turns the fruit in his hands. The skin is green and the flesh under it is hard and bitter, and it’s one of the only fruits that grows well and abundant down here. Still, it has a pleasing crunch and it’s just juicy enough to quench a bit of thirst.

Also, properly prepared, it can make the littlest laugh. So that’s what he does now, wrapping a string between his thumb and index finger and using it to make shallow cuts, dragging it a bit to peel off sections. Bending the string to form a loop lets him dot in small circles for eyes, and once he’s laid the pattern all the way around, his strings carry the apple back to the table.

His brother swears by his blue flames, but he honestly cannot imagine living with his purple strings. They’re his hands and fingers and his will made real, and he wouldn’t trade them for anything at all. Maybe the littlest will take after him, he muses, back to stroking that thin, delicate spine. He imagines teaching their littlest to touch the world of strings that’s always there, and showing him how to reach out and pluck and move and conduct to make the strings dance and the thought makes him smile.

His brother’s breath hitches against his back, and it’s fine. They’re both awake now, so he tilts his skull back again to tap against his brother’s, and the little thunk reassures them both. The littlest remains asleep for now, and he and his brother just breathe and lean on each other and are quietly happy in each other’s presence.  It’s a pretty rare thing.

But like a kid with a new toy, his brother starts itching for the book. He doesn’t mind, is actually quite curious, ‘cause as far as he knows, quantum entanglement is irreversible. Imagine being able to keep scents from spreading, or even reversing the process! It’s crazy, but that’s what the book claims it’s about.

He tugs at his brother’s wrist when he twitches again, tugs and taps a request. His brother’s grinning, he can tell without looking, and says, “yeah, sure, ‘course, lemme just find the page.”

It’s about a chapter in when the littlest stirs, and he sets the kid upright in his lap, bringing the pre-carved crabapple back over and entertaining the littlest, using a string to cut it into sections. Each one’s a little skeleton face, and the littlest burbles and claps happily as he passes the bits between the three of them.

They eat one more crabapple while his brother reads out loud, and when his voice starts getting rough, they break out the juice.

Passing the bottle around for little sips, he asks a question about the main concept of the second chapter, and the littlest bounces on his leg as they discuss the metaphysical implications of reversing quantum entanglement on small fields, and whether or not reversing the flow would technically count as turning back time. He doesn’t think so, but his brother’s pretty convinced.

“but the problem I’m seeing is power,” his brother’s saying, flipping through the notebook. “too little and the effect’ll destabilize the second it runs out. too much and you risk it scaling itself out of proportion; it would grow and reverse surrounding mass, too.”

He wonders if a small but steady current could keep up a static reversed state. Maybe the power requirements would be exponential, as time took the balance increasingly far away? Or would constant power cause constant reversal, taking a set field back farther and farther?

“the first half of this notebook’s about that,” his brother mentions. “looks like they’re trying to create that static reversed state, but yeah, forgot the variable of increased time-distance.” The scritch of the pen goes on a while as his brother jots down a revised formula, then the taptaptap of the back end of the pen as his brother calculates. “i’m thinkin’, what, positive exponential as the power draw limit approaches infinity, starting at, hmmm, a tenth of a second before the corresponding exponential decrease?”

It’d be twelfth, actually, one twelfth of a second. His brother surrenders the notebook for him to correct the calculations. His brother’s the thinker and the theorist, but he’s always been better at math. And since they’re dealing with what would rapidly become a hypertoroid, it’d actually be more accurate to say as the limit approaches eternity, wouldn’t it? Even that’s not quite right, but at least it has the correct number of dimensions.

“yeah, well, we’re pretty much inventing a new branch of science, here, so i think we’re allowed to make up whatever terms we want,” his brother says, and huffs a small laugh. “hey, wanna try the purple thing?”

The purple thing turns out to be greyish-yellow on the inside when his strings cut it longways. When he passes along that the woman recommended cooking it, his brother takes half the thing in his cupped hands and brings out just enough flame to heat it. It turns mushy inside pretty quickly.

The flavor’s nice but a bit bland when they try it, so he tosses that last little block of parmesan through a grid of his strings and it melts over the still-hot surface. The littlest goes absolutely crazy over it and shoves a full half of it into his own face so enthusiastically that he’s gonna need a bath later. He and his brother split the other half, and if it’s bland, it’s still warm and filling.

Besides, they’ve still got half a bottle of juice left. Once they get the littlest rinsed off as best they can, they settle back into their nest and pass the bottle around again. His brother reads out some more, the littlest asleep between them, and he jots down ideas and makes a few bad sketches of hypertoroids.

Everything’s a balance, he knows, but when today comes due it’ll still have been worth it. Moments like these, where they’re all safe and full and together, are priceless and he thinks that a whole day like this is worth anything.

It’s not true, but he doesn’t know that. Not yet.


	2. i don't quite come in peace

Today’s the middle day of the week again, and he has an actual standing job for this day. It’s only once a week, but it pays two coins each time, and that’s at least enough for apples. Only today, they still have three apples let, which is dinner for them all and breakfast for the other two, so they can put these coins directly into the savings jar.

He’s on his way back, just around the corner, and calculating how much they even have in the savings jar when someone shouts behind him. He ignores it, and thinks they have maybe enough for one year. With the fifteen gold, maybe one year.  

“Beg pardon,” says a perfectly ordinary voice behind him, and he ignores it entirely and keeps walking. “Excuse me,” it says again, though, closer behind him, so he steps back at an angle, turning sideways and letting the stranger pass in front of him.

But the stranger doesn’t pass by; she stops instead, turning to face him. “Hello!” she says cheerily, with a jaunty little salute, and shit shit _shit_ he recognizes this lady. This is the easy mark from a few days back, the one who’d been carrying fifteen whole gold pieces in her pocket.

He immediately goes on the defensive, shoulders out and head high, hands flying up and raising strings all along the street.

“Whoa, no, hey, no need for all that,” the stranger says. “Look, sorry, think I’m doing this wrong. I’m just looking for something I lost the other day. Little book, along with a notebook? I just really need the books back, okay?”

No, he’s not okay with this, and he lets the farther strings go to pull up a thicker barrier between them.

“I just want the notebook!” the stranger more or less yelps. “It’s got all my details for my latest experiment in it! It’ll set me back _weeks_ if it’s gone. Keep the money and the bag, hell, keep the book for all the good it’ll do you. I’m not gonna call anybody or tell anyone as long as I get that notebook back.”

Ah, blackmail. This lady must be some kind of famous scientist, he figures, if she cares more about her notebook than her purse. He might even recognize her name, if she gave it.

But the notebook has made his brother happy. He’ll be upset, but if they can keep the fifteen gold and not have to worry about being chased….

He squints at the stranger, but she seems earnest enough. She’s a tall spiny reptile in a pleasing shade of lilac, and her paws are twisting themselves together in a way that speaks more of nerves than communication.

He watches her claws twist around themselves for a long moment, then blinks himself out of it. His brother will be sad, but will also understand. They need to keep the money, and this seems to be the best way.

So he bares his teeth but nods. He hates that this is going to hurt his brother, he hates it so much, and he hopes his glare makes that plain, but he still nods and gestures for her to stay put. He takes a few steps back, and she steps forward to follow.

He glares at her and throws up more strings. “ _W̡͏̶͟͞A̷͜͡Į̷T͏̵̕_ ,” he grits out, and watches her head jerk back and her eyes go wide at the awful resonance that accompanies his verbal speech. But then she calms down and nods, and when he steps back again, she doesn’t follow.

He still edges backward until he’s around the corner, and then he’s down the alley and tapping on the board. He’s already removing his safety string when the knock comes back, and he almost tumbles in his haste to get inside.

It’s the work of seconds to relatch the board, and then his brother’s right there, tucked up in his personal space and asking, “what’s wrong, bro? calm down, hey, calm and breathe with me, yeah, and then tell me what’s wrong.”

Apologies fall from his fingers, jumbled and senseless, but he breathes with his brother, following the simple rhythm of rise-and-fall until he can still his hands. He slowly explains what’s going on, and he hesitantly says that the lady wants her notebook back in exchange for not ratting on them.

But his brother just huffs a laugh and tugs his head down to rest against his brother’s chest, able to hear the steady beat of magic under bone. “it’s cool, bro,” he says, almost laughing at how much of an overreaction this is. “we can keep the book, right? see, then that’s more than enough for me. the stuff in the notebook was interesting but wrong, and i haven’t even finished the book yet. it’s fine, bro, i’m not gonna miss the notebook. yes, i promise.”

When he’s finally calm enough to let his brother go, his brother takes only a few steps away before coming back with the notebook. It’s somehow thicker and messier now, and the pen’s clipped to the outside instead of neatly tucked in. “sorry,” his brother says, “i, uh. might’ve made a few more notes.”

He shakes his head; he doubts the scientist will care as long as she gets her data back. Still, better safe than sorry. His brother nods, agreeing, and carefully rips out the pages they’ve written on. There’s still some of their notations on her original pages, but she can live with that, he’s sure.

He accepts the notebook and takes a second to draw himself up. His brother really doesn’t seem to mind. It’s not a big deal. They can keep the fifteen gold and the book, his brother’s not upset, and everything’s going to work out.

Okay, he’s got this.

He nods once again at his brother, clutching his armbone tight and tapping out a thanks. His brother waves a dismissive hand, but still catches the board before it falls back down and starts to latch it behind him. He spins a string across the sill, as always, and heads back.

She’s still waiting when he gets there, leaning against the wall where he left her. Her arms are crossed but her feet are fidgeting, and with the darting eyes and drawn down mouth it’s pretty clear she thinks he’s not coming back. Well, she’ll be surprised, then; he’s spent too much time and effort on his reputation in this area to risk accusations of theft.

His fingers are tapping out angry and threat against the notebook, but she’s not gonna notice. In fact, she barely notices him when he slinks out of the shadows beside her. It makes her jump, and then she’s angry and embarrassed as well as defensive and this is just gonna be a mess.

He sticks the notebook out, and her eyes go wide at it. “Oh, wow, you really did bring it!” she exclaims, soft and with more breath than voice. She reaches for it as she babbles, “I mean, thanks. Thank you, this really means--” but he isn’t letting go.

Promise, he says, and then remembers. “ _̶̢́P̕͝R̴O̷M̡I̶S̵͡Ę̀_ ,” he demands, and this time she only flinches a tiny bit.

“You can keep the rest, I already said. Gonna miss the book but it was too theoretical anyway, doesn’t look like it’s possible after all. So keep that, keep the bag, whatever, the money too. I won’t tell, you obviously need it for something, so whatever, it’s all fine as long as I’ve got my notebook.”

He narrows his eyes at her, still holding on to the book with one hand. She really must be a famous scientist, but she seems too ditzy for it.

“Promise!” She huffs. “Look, cross my heart, you want a pinky swear?” This does nothing to convince him of her sincerity, but it’s apparently what he’s getting.

He lets the notebook go, and she snatches it back into her own space. He watches as she notices it’s thinner, watches as her brows furrow and her teeth bite into her lip, and he watches as she opens the thing to flip through it.

“Oh,” she sighs in relief. “You just took some of the blank pages, probably just wanted paper. Thanks for not using the first ones,” she says, and snaps the thing shut. And then she smiles, a real smile where her eyes crinkle up at the corners and her teeth show. “This means a lot to me,” she says, and means it. “Thanks for returning it.”

She’s thanking him for keeping the money he stole from her, and on top of that she seems to have no respect for what is truly a fascinating hypothetical branch of theoretical physics. This lady is _weird_.

He watches her walk away, a bounce in her step as she hugs the notebook close. And then he watches longer, just to be sure, because you never can tell with the crazies.

Finally he sighs and starts to head back home. They lost a temporary and unlooked-for luxury but get to keep the fifteen gold. She won’t tell, and hopefully they’ll never have to see her again.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, he’s heading out to South Market Square. It’s late evening, almost full dark, and restaurants will be starting their clean-ups soon.

“Hey, kid!” calls out a voice he knows, and no, no, dammit _no_. This is what comes of giving in to threats of blackmail once; you’re never free again.

He has one beat to decide between running and facing her down and that’s not even a choice. He can’t use horizontal tripping springs on a crowded street like this, but there’s a narrow side street just down there, and he takes off for it

There’s an explosion of swearing and the clatter of pursuit behind him, but she really can’t be that fast.

“I’ll pay you!” she shrieks at him, and halfway down the street he stops.

That’s another matter entirely. Also probably a trap, but he knows exactly how good he is with strings, and she’s an academic. Anything she’s prepared that could take him down will be loud and messy and scene-causing. Risk is low and she’s already proven to have more money than sense; yes, it’s worth exploring.

...besides, the whole street’s now giving them some really weird looks.

But she catches up to him, breathing hard and holding out a gold piece. “Advance,” she says. “Talk to me--just talk, I swear!--talk to me for an hour and I’ll give you two more after.”

But he’s still not stupid, so even though he takes the coin and nods, he also makes a gesture to the street around them and then hooks a thumb over his shoulder.

“Yes, not here,” she answers absently, still breathing hard. She must not be in good physical shape. On second thought, looking at the length of those legs, it’s possible she just wasn’t built for running. “There’s a little cafe a street over and a block down, they’ve got outside tables. Enough for your paranoid self?”

He knows the place; it’s a spider bakery. He’s never been inside, but it always smells so good, and the spiders have a...a reputation for dealing with troublemakers. It’s as close to neutral ground as they’ll probably manage, but. But in order to go there, they’ll have to _buy_ something, and those prices are verging on ridiculous.

More money than sense, he reminds himself, then steps back and to the side. He cocks his head to the side, folding down just a tiny bit and waves a hand elegantly, because like hell is he going first into unidentified, potentially hostile territory.

She’s staring at him instead of moving, so he turns his skull more towards her, waiting. She’s still not moving, so he shrugs obviously, pockets the coin and makes as if to leave.

“No! Sorry, yes, let’s go, I just wasn’t expecting this sarcastic side of you. Of course you’re going to be the most obnoxious brat…” she starts walking, still muttering under her breath. Maybe she’s a nervous babbler, maybe she’s just taking advantage of his silence, but whatever it is, this lady needs to learn how to shut the hell up.

The cafe is really only a few minutes away, so he trails her pretty close until they get there. Lagging too far behind would be almost as bad as leading, after all.

There’s four tables arranged along the storefront, one to the left of the door and three to the right, and the first to the right is taken by one old turtle dude reading a newspaper. She starts towards the one to the left, but nope, he is not having that.

He moves directly past her to the last table, taking the far chair and kicking it back and to a sideways angle. Now it’s the only chair not in front of the giant glass windows, and he’s got his back into the solid little corner made by the storefront and a decorative pillar.

She throws up her hands but doesn’t complain, only says, “Wait there, I need coffee.”

The sound his fingerbones make on the table is clean and high and pleasant as he points out that _he’s_ not the one being unreasonable here.

She’s gone quite a while, and he watches the process through the window. There’s a whole stand full of lovely baked goods, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to go in there; the smell’s making him hungry enough from here.

She drops a few coins onto the web for the farthest left and browses up and down the display, visibly dithering before adding another coin to a middle web. When she moves away to wait, he looks out to the street, watching the parade of monsters heading home. The glowlights are fading everywhere, running out of juice. They’ll have to charge for about ten hours before they’ll glow again, and that’s night in the Underground.

It’s stupid, is what it is. There’s a place with eternal magma and a place with eternal snow, and _they’re connected with a river_. Why the hell has no one got a hydroelectric generator up yet? It’s been years, and still no power. Granted, one hydroelectric plant is not gonna cut it for a tiny town, much less the whole Underground, but again, river. Waterwheels could supplement the turbines, it’s not like it’d even be _expensive_ to build, either--

She’s coming back, carrying a plate with a cinnamon bunny. She sighs as she sits, and places the plate down gently, fiddling to get it perfectly straight. He thought she wanted coffee, but there’s no cup.

There is, however, an awkward silence as he stares at her and she stares at the plate.

Finally she looks up, catching his eye and blatantly misinterpreting his stare. She must be, because she says, “They’ll bring the coffee when it’s ready, I just didn’t want to wait and risk you running out on me. I had to wait in that square every night to try to find you, no way I wanna do that again!”

He doesn’t care why she doesn’t have coffee with her or how long she waited for him; he cares about why she wants to pay him yet more money. He clicks out an interrogative before he can think, but stills his fingers the second he notices. No weaknesses.

Thankfully, she didn’t notice at all. She’s turned now, digging through a new bag and pulling out the same notebook from the other day, setting on the table.

A bevy of spiders comes swarming up the table just then, balancing two mugs. “Coffee, thank goodness,” she sighs, and reaches for them. “Thank you!”

It’s coffee. It’s dark, strong, rich, steaming coffee, fresh-brewed and black. He can smell it from here, and his fingers vibrate minutely on the table before he tucks them into his lap, wondering blankly why she’d want two cups of coffee this close to night. From what he read in the notebook, the experiments aren’t time-sensitive enough to require night monitoring, and they’re also not nearly close enough to a breakthrough to justify excitement. Can’t be a deadline, or she wouldn’t be wasting time with him, so why…?

She puts the first cup down on her side of the table, placed carefully katty-corner to the cinnamon bunny, and the second cup towards the middle. “I love the coffee here,” she says conversationally, and nudges the the second cup more his way.

Is--is it for him? Did she just...get him a cup of coffee?

Okay, _no_. There’s a difference between ‘more money than sense’ and _whatever the hell this fuckery is_. Nobody goes around buying strangers cups of coffee. Nobody gives street kids anything. Nobody chases down someone who stole from them in order to buy them fresh hot coffee, good coffee, coffee like velvet, coffee like _life_.

He crosses his feet at the ankle and tucks them behind the chair leg. It compromises maneuverability, but he could hear the faint clicking of his toes shaking against the stone street and that’s more unacceptable right now.

She dumps an unholy amount of creamer and a ridiculous amount of sugar in her cup, and he wants to just shriek at the travesty.  He concentrates on his breathing as she stirs and takes a sip, and he has to list primes in ascending order when she lets out a contented breath.

He tucks his fingers under his thighs and pushes his ankles into the chair to keep his spine straight and his body steady. It’s _not fair_.

He’s gotta be all but broadcasting, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She just looks up, sees he hasn’t reached for the cup, and says, “That’s for you, if you want it.” If he wants it? _If he wants it_ , ha. Haha. “You saw the spiders bring it right out, I couldn’t’ve done anything to it.”

The struggle is real, but she doesn’t seem to think this is any kind of big deal, nose back in her own cup. Okay, so as long as he can play it cool, she won’t know. She won’t have to know, it’s a throwaway gesture for her, okay. Okay, okay, breathe.

His fingers still shake as he reaches for the mug, hooking his fingers through the handle and carefully bringing it to his side of the table. His other hand wraps around the side to support it and he presses the points of all of his fingers into the mug to prevent tapping. It’s not as heavy as his old purple mug was, or as solid, but the warmth’s still radiating through it.

It smells even better up close. He hears her distantly say something about sugar and creamer being over there, but he’s too focused on taking a quick, delicate sip.

When he’s managed to convince his hands to unclench and his eyes to open again, she’s looking at him. He almost cares, but the bitter bite of bliss is still sitting heavy in his mouth. It would be perfect even if it were shitty coffee, but it’s quality stuff, a lovely dark roast, and he takes another breath of the steam, a larger sip, and places the mug back on the table in front of him. He lays his hands purposefully on either side of the mug and meets her eyes.

She’s looking at him weird again. “What’s your name, kid?” she starts with, and nope, that’s not happening. She’s a _scientist_ , no way she’s getting his name. He shakes his head at her.

“Fine,” she says, “I’ll make one up for you. A really embarrassing one. Hmm, what would a teenage boy hate….I’m gonna call you Aster, like my favorite flower!”

Nothing about that is acceptable, except the fact that it’s not even close to the name he keeps in his heart. He shakes his head again, and takes another small sip of his coffee.

“Aster,” she repeats, more thoughtful this time, “I like it. Let’s go with that ‘til you tell me your real name.”

He shakes his head a third time, then raises his hands and taps out a negative as pointedly as he can.

“G?” she asks, tilting her head and squinting at his fingerbones as they clack. “Is that what that letter is? It kinda looks like you’re making a G. G. Aster? Aster G? Asterg? Gaster?”

He shakes his skull one final time, then throws his hands up in obvious resignation. It doesn’t matter what this lady calls him, he supposes. He doesn’t have to answer to anything he doesn’t want to.

“Fine,” she says, “Gaster. Sounds dumb, but it’ll do. So. I got a question for you, _Gaster_ , and that question is ‘what the actual hell?’”

He mimes overdone confusion, because this lady obviously cannot comprehend basic hands. It’s not really fair, he knows; hands isn’t even a proper language and the only one who gets it is his brother. He’s clacked as an outlet most of his life, and his brother learned his patterns enough to fill in context pretty early on. Then, when they had to be quiet so often, they’d turned it into a proper language of gestures and deliberate taps and clacks, and it’s crisp, clean, quiet, ever evolving, and so much better than vocalizing anyway.

It makes interacting with outsiders difficult, but in this case the coffee more than makes up for it.

“This,” she says, flipping through the notebook. “Look, here.” She points to the third page, where she’d calculated the energy requirements for the static quantum entanglement reversal field. His brother’s writing, small and round, is tucked around it, noting the missing exponential increases and making cutting little comments about the lack of fourth dimensional variables. His own sharp numbers double the equation and he’d followed the math down, correcting the concepts as he’d gone.

He pulls the notebook towards himself now with one hand, squinting. One finger runs across the page as he follows it through again but no, there’s nothing wrong with his math. He pushes it back towards her, cocking his head and tilting his palm up. Where’s the problem?

She huffs, dragging it back and flipping a few more pages. He takes another sip of his coffee. It’s cooling down a bit, and almost half gone, but it’s put him in a good enough mood to humor this lady a while longer.

The next page she shows him is his horrible attempt at illustrating how the toroid of progressing entanglement would explode out into the hypertoroid of the reversal. Yes, it’s inaccurate, he knows that, but really. It’s hard enough doing decent, to-scale representations of three dimensional concepts without rulers and compasses, but when the fourth dimension’s added? There’s just no way to draw that perfectly on paper.

Is she paying for his time in order to criticize his handwriting or drawing skills? Their math isn’t wrong, and the illustration isn’t mathematically accurate, granted, but it’s certainly recognizable. He makes his _so what_ charade at her again.

She seems frustrated at his lack of understanding, throwing up her paws and shaking her head. Rude, lady, he’s not the one being cryptic here. “Did you do this?” she demands. “I don’t recognize this writing and I work with all the major scientists in the underground. Do you know a theoretical physicist hiding around here?” He shakes his head and taps at his own chest. It feels a bit wrong to take all the credit, though; his brother did half the work. Okay, two thirds, what _ever_.

“Then how’d you know how to do this?” is what she asks next. “How do you know what shape a reversed quantum entanglement field would make, how does this other writer know all these terms about a branch of science that doesn’t even exist, why were you able to fix in one day the math that everyone in the best lab in the Underground thought was perfect?!”

He takes a long, slow drain on his coffee this time. So it’s not that there’s something wrong, it’s that it was correct? Is she seriously angry at him for correcting her mistakes?

There’s no way he can communicate that to her; it’d be too much talking and she doesn’t speak hands. So he leans forward, sets the mug aside, and gestures to be given the notebook.

She passes it to him, and he unclips the pen and flips to the empty pages in the back of the notebook. He jots out a quick note that chapter 3 was pretty clear on how it’s not just a reversal of a moment. In order to maintain the reversal, you have to not only keep it reversed but also maintain the reversal from the moment you started, which is getting further away through time every second. Exponential increase, duh, and he manages to stop before he actually writes out a scathing ‘did you even read it?’

He taps the back of the pen twice, then spins it across his pointer finger in an absent twitch. He adds a short note on repurposing related terms and making shit up, because undefined terms are the most dangerous and stops there before he can include anything about them clearly not deserving to name anything in this field. He gives the whole thing a narrow-eyed glance-over for legibility and clarity, then hands the notebook back over.

She grabs it impatiently out of his hand, and he takes another slow swallow as he watches her read it. Perhaps he could’ve been more...polite with his wording, but he doesn’t see why he should bother. Also, it’s fun watching her cheeks flush from lavender to violet as she reads.

“Are you--” she finally explodes, dropping the notebook and making like she wants to strangle the air in front of her. It’s the most entertaining she’s even been.

Sadly, she gets herself together pretty fast. “Okay,” she says, running one paw over her headcrest and the other down her side. “Okay. Sarcastic shitty stealing brat who’s a genius in theoretical quantum mechanics. Sure, why not?”

He can’t help snorting at that. They’re a great team, but he’s not the brilliant one; it’s his brother who’s the genius. He just builds the bridges to support his brother’s leaps of logic.

She doesn’t seem to care; she just points at him and goes, “Nope, you shut your snarky mouth, I can’t deal with you right now. I need to think.”

She can think all she wants, but he’s just finished his coffee and now either she’s gonna give him the two coins or another cup. He’d take either, honestly. He waves to catch her eye, then gestures to himself and jerks his thumb out towards the street.

“What, no, wait, you can’t leave yet! I’m thinking!” He can tell; it looks painful. “It hasn’t been an hour, we said an hour.” Well, true. He hesitates.

“Okay, look. You and whoever this other person is are obviously really good at this. Are...the pages you tore out, are they like these?” If by ‘like these’ she means ‘used for science’, then yes. Mostly. The littlest had taken two for drawing on, and one more was used to calculate out the savings fund.

He nods and sways his hand like _so-so._ She nods. “I’ll give you the two coins I promised, and another tomorrow if you meet me here with those pages.”

He tilts his head at her and blinks. What use could she--is she. Is she trying _crib off them?_ His pinky and thumb spread and he’s folding down the middle three and dragging his hand away with the _click-tap-tap_ before he can think to stop it. _Why_ , he wants to know. He spreads his hands wide in front of him instead, head tilting back the other way.

She blinks at him. “Why?” she correctly interprets. “Why?! Are you--you’re kidding! Look, this wasn’t even a proper field of study last week! This one change has revolutionized the entire idea, and you want to know why I want more!” Her paws go up again and she’s twitching in her seat. “Look, based on what you give me, I can take it to my boss, maybe even get you an internship or apprenticeship at the lab! You could get _paid_ to do this, paid a lot to do only science every day! Wouldn’t that be better?”

Suddenly the coffee is sour on his tongue like bile, and there’s a real nauseous feeling building under his ribs. He makes instant grabby hands at the notebook until she passes it over.

 _what lab,_ he writes fast, and at least one of those letters came out a symbol instead. It’s still enough, and he shoves it at her.

“What?” she says, catching the notebook with her face. “Oh. Um. I work in the Royal Labs, just down South Street. We’ve got lots of little divisions, but we’re lead by the Royal Scientist, Dr. Bain. He was just appointed not too long ago, back when that last human came through, you remember? But he’s great, and the lab’s really flourishing right now! The king’s given us a budget increase after that, and we’re taking on new people all the time. If the other pages are anything like this, he won’t hesitate to get you in, I know it!”

He stands up and shakes his head. He doesn’t really want to go into any lab, actually, thanks all the same. She looks disappointed, but when he holds up two fingers she pulls the promised two gold out of her pocket and sets it on the table between them.

“Well, I’ll be here tomorrow after work,” she says, and throws back the last of the liquid abomination she made of perfectly good coffee. “If you or whoever the other one is change your minds. I’ll even buy you both coffee,” and that is just _not fair_.

He scoops up the two gold, careful not to knock over the empty cups or the untouched cinnamon bunny. They go straight into his pocket, and he gives a little bobble of goodbye before he melts into the darkness that’s everywhere now.

He’d be surprised if she followed him, but he checks anyway. He’s clear on the streets, but he does three strings at varying heights across the alley opening, just to be sure.

When he hits the ground inside, the first thing he does is snatch his brother into a hug and hold him for a while. His brother doesn’t ask, just helps him to the nest and sets the littlest on his lap. He needs this for now, just to breathe and be, and his brother wedges himself behind him, draping over his shoulders like a blanket or a jacket.

He’s calm, now, almost calm enough to turn his twitches and clicks into purposeful speech when his brother nuzzles into his neck a bit more and asks, “why do you smell like coffee?”  

He answers blankly that they want to hire him to work in a science lab.

“but coffee.”

They want his brother to work in the lab, too.

“and they have coffee there?”

He doesn’t know, why would he know? It’s a science lab, though, of course they’d have coffee there. But coffee can’t make it worthwhile, not on its own.

His brother hums. “savings jar,” he points out. “we’ve got enough for one year, maybe, but that’s--one year’s not enough. and that’s one year at the public school. any kind of decent school is gonna charge a lot more per half-year than we’ve got.”

Yeah, he knows.

“and not incidentally, coffee.” They’re both quiet a moment, and then his brother huffs a short laugh. “is the price of our souls and our sanity really coffee?”

Apparently, he answers, and they both laugh. It’s not funny, and his laughter, at least, is edging into hysteria. They let it run out, though, before he nudges his brother’s head with his jaw. He asks if his brother really wants to science again.

“sure,” his brother yawns, heavy on his shoulders. “why not? not like we’re good for much else, anyway.”


End file.
